


What the Hand, Dare Seize the Fire

by Careful_Mimicry



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Descriptions of murder, Flustered Hux, Gladiator AU, Gladiator Games, Gladiator!Ren, Hux will never live up to his dad, M/M, Ren enjoys killing kind of, Ren is a beast, Slavery, Violence, ancient rome au, arrogant Ren, emperor!Hux, explicit violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Careful_Mimicry/pseuds/Careful_Mimicry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ancient Rome AU.</p><p>Ren was the leader of a Germanic army whose people were allowed to live in exchange for three years of gladiatorial service to a Quaestor of Rome.</p><p>Hux is a general of the Roman Leigon, and first son of the Emperor.</p><p>The Emperor dies and gladiatorial games are held in his honor. Hux has never enjoyed such sport. Until a particular Visagoth gladiator enters the Colosseum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU was inspired by the amazing art of Jeusus on Tumblr. Please, please I beg you to click [THIS LINK](http://jeusus.tumblr.com/post/144600925683/okay-so-more-about-these-two-assholes-and-ask) and to check it out. That shit is incredible and I was dying I was so in love with it. My love and thanks go out to Jeusus for allowing me to use those photos as inspiration and write this fic for them. I give them all credit for the AU.
> 
> A huge thanks also goes out to [HOLLYCOMB](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb) (that's a link) and [WRITINGWHILEHUMAN](http://writingwhilehuman.tumblr.com/) (also a link) for reading the first draft of this chapter and sharing their opinions with me. They were superstars and I can not thank them enough for the time and effort they put into this.
> 
> This is my very first time writing Star Wars. In fact it was one of Hollycomb's stories that got me to watch the movies in the first place (about a month ago now), and now I'm obsessed. Please, please let me know in the comments what you think of this fic, what works, what doesn't, what you like, what you don't. This is my first time writing Kylux so all help is much appreciated. I hope you all enjoy this first chapter.
> 
> Thank you all so much.
> 
> Dialog in italics is in not Latin, most likely a Germanic/Visagoth tongue.  
> Dialog that is NOT in italics is in Latin... I am not writing a story in Latin. It's better for everyone. Trust me. We can all just pretend.

There were no storm clouds but the earth beneath their feet had been stomped to mud, fertilized with the blood of a thousand men. No graves were erected, no ceremonies held, just a sodden hole in the ground and a blazing fire. But not for his men. His men remained where they had fallen, gore and carrion littering the field, without peace. Without honor.

Three hundred more knelt behind him. The last of his army. They would fight until the end, should he command it. They would willingly, eagerly give their lives to take just one more Roman’s. His blood seeped with hatred for the Empire. His eyes were ablaze with rage that pounded at his temples and ripped at his muscles, demanding he stand and fight. It demanded he break and burn until the last wisp of life has left his body. But he would make no such demand.

He remained still, by the grace of the gods themselves he did not move. Some had squatted or sat, uncaring of the filth and sinew below them, just too tired or too defeated to stand. His arms crossed, eyes watching with uneasy agitation as a small council of self important peacocks disappeared into a grandiose tent. He sneered at their garish decoration, at their smooth and clean skin. Politicians who fancied themselves generals, lauded themselves as grand warriors.

His legs itched to move, to pace, to churn the soil beneath his feet into a ruddy path across the pen and back. They would die today. Slaughtered like animals, caged like beasts, because the Romans were too scared to fight. Even when victory was assured they trembled in their boots at the might of his ragged band of _savages_.

It was some time later, after the worrying had wearied him and the threat of death felt like a blessing of cold rain that when the embassy approached their guarded cage. It was a hurriedly constructed pen that only held his army in because he had told them to stand down.

“You speak Latin, savage?”

He looked to the man speaking, he had been perched atop a horse earlier, a healthy distance away from the battle, watching with lazy bemusement. _Savage?_ He spat at their feet- more blood than saliva, and smirked, eyes crackling with challenge, begging for confrontation. The Roman sighed haughtily, all of this clearly beneath him, these proceedings unworthy of his time.

“He seemed to understand _that_ well enough. Get him out here.”

It took four soldiers to wrangle him from the enclosure. It took a swift hit to the back of his legs for him to bend, one knee slamming into the blood and rock. Pain lanced up his thigh but he did not flinch, dark eyes wild and shifting, stirring unease and agitation in the men around him. The Roman, a general based on his armor and position on the field, held up his hand for calm and silence, with all the pomp and circumstance expected of a man who probably wiped his ass with silk.

“What is your name, German?”

His smile was toothy and viscous, more snarl than grin. Blood coated his teeth and lined his cracked and chapping lips. The general’s sigh was heavy, already weary with the tedium of the proceedings.

“Delightful.”

The distaste was palpable, a scent upon the air and he had to restrain himself from chuckling low and vulgar.

“I am here to make a bargain. Take it or don’t. Three years of gladiatorial service for the lives of your men. A year per hundred seems more than fair.”

His body stiffened, eyes flickering quickly to the shattered remains of his army then quickly back to the self-satisfied smirk of the general poised delicately before him. “Markus Trisius, it seems as though you were right.” Another man, draped in robes of white and purple stepped forward, interest captured.

“Of course I was. What say you, German?”

His Latin was broken at best and so he refused to use it, growling out a dangerous, _“Why?”_

The general’s face contorted with frustration and he turned to the horde still immured within the fencing. “Who among you speaks with a civil tongue?” No one answered.

His face shifted to a sneering grin, despite his position on the ground, in the filth. The expression taunted the men before him, riling them into a restless unease. The general noticed and huffed low and swift from his nose. “You will speak now, savage, or all of you will die.”

A young woman rose to her feet, voice thick with the accent of her native tongue but words easy and clear, “I will translate.” A single guard lead her roughly from the enclosure and shoved her down next to her leader. He smirked at the assumption that just one guard could so easily control her. Romans always did underestimate women.

“He asks, why.”

“Why what?” Was the snapped retort of the general, unamused by the labored antics.

_“Why do they not kill us all?”_

“Why are you making the offer.”

The man draped in quickly soiling robe's face grew into a grin of childish delight and open intrigue, “He is a worthy opponent. I would see him fight in the gladiatorial rings.” He was speaking to the general, who waved his hand, “I know that. _I_ was not the one who inquired.” His words were clipped an impatient, mind already on other, more important, matters. He did pause, though, giving the issue proper thought, “Without proper training in a Ludus? He would last a month.”

The other shrugged, “Then he gets the fate he deserves. Or he brings honor and glory to Rome and gold to me with his victor. I am contented with either.” His voice was shaky, knowing he’d already offended the general, attempting to placate him with words of death and glory.

The general's face was set in frustration and he waved his hand dismissively, “Yes, fine.”

_“I will not be their plaything.”_

The woman looked at him and whispered back quickly, _“We will die for you.”_

The words struck him in a way he did not expect. Thousands in his army had been slaughtered mercilessly already. He knew few of their names and cared even less. They were fighting for freedom, fighting for honor, fighting for home, and they should well die for it, if needed. Somewhere within him, though, he was tired. He was weary of loss after loss. He needed to recuperate, to gather his warriors and to start again.

That time was not now. And that time would never come if his current fighters died that day.

_“I will go.”_

She blinked but his face was hard and he refused to look at her, eyes staring death into the general’s soul.

“He says he agrees.”

The man in robes huffed, “As expected. What is his name?”

He replied this time, gaze unwavering, “Ren.”

* * *

 

He scowled at the single leather pauldron a young servant girl was securing across his chest and shoulder. And what good was that? Why bother wearing anything at all? His whole outfit filled his mouth with the sour taste of discontent. Thick wool wrappings up to his thigh, bare feet, a leather and rough linen subligaculum. Even the flimsy padded leather bracer he was given for his right arm felt merely for show. His head snapped up as the Roman before him spoke.

“Perfection.”

“Shall I shave his head, Quaestor?” The servant girl’s voice was soft and submissive and sent a lance of stubborn determination through him.

The man paused, looking Ren over with a critical gaze that he could feel as a physical touch on his bared flesh. His expression twisted into repugnance, skin crawling at the phantom contact.

“No.” His smirk was proud, as if he’d just been particularly clever. He waved a dismissive hand in Ren’s direction, “Take off the sides, pull the rest back. He will look the part of the savage.” Ren’s smirk was sardonic, words acerbic, _“I am the savage yet they send men to die for sport. Laud them as heroes when the slaughter one another.”_ His eyes were locked onto the Quaestor’s.

Though the Roman did not understand his words, he could comprehend the tone and he rolled his eyes, lounging back in his chair, lifting his wine glass, “I spared you for your fight. Not your tongue. You may still it or I will.” His posture and words full of lofty arrogance.

Ren’s expression twisted at the words, a telling fire sparking into a blaze behind his eyes. He was not a slave,  he was under contract, and such threats had limits to their truth. The confidence with which he had spoken through, the off handed flippancy of the thought, stirred the anger that always lurked just below his surface.

The young woman beside him had already taken up a dagger and was styling his hair as commanded. Ren’s expression eased, a serenity settling about him with incredulous plausibility. His movements were quick, efficient and nearly effective. One hand raised, knocking the girl’s hand aside, jostling her grip on the blade. Ren snatched it, twisted it free with a snapping jerk of his hand. He flipped it so the hilt rested in his palm and, in the same motion, launched himself forward from his stool.

His momentum caught, head snapping back as the leather cord coiled tight around his throat. His body jerked back, crumpling to the ground for only a moment before he was scrabbling at the whip around his neck, feet churning to gain purchase and press himself towards the Quaestor. The braided leather tightened around him, he felt the pressure of the weave against his throat, cutting in, drawing blood as he refused to yield.

The Roman had jerked back in surprise, all his smug confidence gone, his eyes afraid, body cowering against the back of the chair. His wine splattered against the stone, silver cup dented and ringing as it struck.

Ren’s mind was going fuzzy at the edges, but his smile was wide with open and mocking derision. The world was narrowing, his mouth gaping as he forcefully pulled air past the clenching at his trachea. His jeer remained until his muscles gave, body collapsing, caving with the need for air. With a flick of the wrist the guard looped his whip free while two others hauled Ren’s body back to the stool and jerked the dagger from his grip.

His eyes were hungry, consumed with rage and his body trembled with the need to lash out again. The tacky heat of blood streaking down his neck and drooling from his hand where he had clenched around the blade, cooled his temper, dampening his fuse.

With the excitement calmed the Quaestor regained his composure, righting himself in his chair and snapping his fingers for a fresh glass. His voice was calm and had an even, if strained keel but a knowing, victorious spark flickered in Ren’s eyes.

“If you are quite finished with that frivolous display…?” It was an expectant question that begged no answer, just simple obedience. An acquiescence that Ren did not wish to give. He saw no alternative however, and thus settled for clenching his fists at his sides, taking solidarity in the piercing flash of white rocketing up his arm from his wounded hand. He fed off the pain, allowed it to wash over him and sooth his vehemence.

He held himself still with a particular stiffness born of barely restrained fury and a lifetime of intensive warrior training. The Roman seemed satisfied enough at his outward submission and lifted a scroll from the table beside him. A flash of conceited joy crossed his face at the tremor in the Quaestor’s hands while holding the parchment.

A second slave had begun combing his hair back high on his head. He snarled quietly, he could do that himself, he was not a helpless child. As he raised a hand to push her away, he heard the heavy, poignant slap of braided leather striking stone tile. He scowled, bitter at being apprehended, tempted to risk punishment again. His hand hovered in indecision for a few strained moments before he dropped it back to his lap.

When all was finished the guards hoisted Ren from his seat- much to his displeasure. He broke his arms free of them and stood tall on his own, chin lifted, shoulders back, body coiled tight with agitation. The Quaestor beckoned he follow and brushed past him without a second glance. Ren’s posture stiffened, set in defiance. The crack of a whip, leather grazing with sharp sting across his back, had him reeling away, instinct jarring him into motion. He cursed himself, heart pounding and mind furious for the display of weakness. In truth he did not wish for another and so he paced sullenly after the Roman.

When they had reached the first floor the Quaestor and his guards lead Ren outside, to the training grounds.

Ren stood unimpressed, an eyebrow cocked petulantly, _“You said I would not train in a_ Ludus." There was no word in his native tongue for a house in which you trained men to mercilessly slaughter each other. He regretted that, for the first time since this ordeal started, he was pushed into using Latin, but it was mostly overrun by the smug superiority in knowing his people were far from the _savage_ ones.

Quaester had no translator and did not understand his language but his tone and the word _Ludus_ were indicative enough of his meaning. “You will train with these men. You are destined to fight them so you will train with them. Learn their weaknesses, learn how the arena works. You will win or you will die. Do with that as you will. Now, go play nice.” He made a shooing motion and Ren wished for blades so he could slice his hands off at the wrists for such degradation.

After the Roman had left Ren remained at the sideline, observing the sparring matches. There were a few fighters whose skills he thought could match his own, but most of the slaves and once-warriors were nothing more than fresh meat, awaiting the slaughter. When standing and doing nothing was more boring than he could bear, Ren meandered over to a display of wooden swords, pikes and shields. There was rope and chains, a net or two laying around but none of that interested him. _Just a fancy way to die_.

He pulled two wooden swords free from their rack, hefting them in his hands, finding their balance and weight. He grimaced, disgust roiling through his gut. The only thing practice weapons taught you was that war would slap you on the ass and send you home like a babbling babe to your mother.

A man was approaching, face bright with expectation, _“Come to join us?”_ All emotion fell from Ren’s face and he sized up the gladiator before him. Arrogance. Pride. He thought himself an equal, or thought himself a brother. Ren cared little if they shared a language, he had never fought beside this man and had nothing to say. He snorted and swept by,  rolling the swords uneasily in his palms. He did not look back for a reaction, eyes trained on several capable combatants.

Another man with scars across his face and a glistening whip in his hand stepped in his path. Ren looked up to meet his eyes, he was tall but the other was taller and he despised him immediately for using that height to try and intimidate. “I am the Doctore here. I might not be training you but you will follow my rule and instruction.” Ren’s face hardened and the slave huffed a hard, cold laugh, “You think you’re better than anyone else here? Let me tell you a secret. It doesn’t matter if you are slave, contracted, or free man. You will die in your own filth, alone, and to the raucous cheers of the crowd. Your life is entertainment now. Whatever you were before- you are a gladiator from this moment on. And you-” He leaned in, breath hot and vile against Ren’s face, voice low and far too intimate for comfort, “are nothing.”

“I here to fight.” He growled, hairs at the back of his neck prickling, skin tingling with the promise of violence. He would not be subdued. He refused to be cowed.

The Doctore laughed, jolting him, setting him on wire-thin edge, suddenly nervous and uncertain. “Well then. We shall have a demonstration. Drust.” The area cleared save one hulking mass of a man, Drust if Ren guessed correctly. He hadn’t seen him amidst the others, but for him to be chosen must mean he was good.

Ren noted the shield on his right arm and flipped his left sword around, so that the blade was pointing backwards out of his hand. He spread his stance and braced himself, muscles coiled tight and ready to strike.

“BEGIN!”

The word hadn’t had chance to echo around the walls of the Ludus even once before Ren had blasted forward, dipping below the heavy _woosh_ of the other’s wooden sword. His left hand swept up, the inverted blade catching unexpectedly under Drust’s shield and ripping it upwards, out of the way. Ren’s right hand slashed across his body, attempted to slice across his abdomen.

Drust’s sword was there, knocking his uselessly aside as his shield swept free of the other blade. He swung it down hard and fast and caught Ren across the side of his face. Ren snarled and staggered a step but did not stop. He spun back towards Drust, elbow catching the inside of his shield to knock it away, left sword headed straight for a sharp jab into his ribs. He was inside Drust’s defences, inside his personal space, within range for a skull rattling pummel strike or a bruising elbow or knee.

The move was, however, unexpected. It was sudden and decisive and taken off the rebound of a devastating blow. Drust could only think to jerk away, back bowed to avoid the back slash of his left blade, his shield swooping in just in time to halt the swipe of Ren’s right blade as he completed his spin. Drust punched out with his shield, landing a winding blow to his chest and sending Ren back a couple paces.

His bare feet skidded in the sand but within a moment he was launching himself forward again. Twisting and dipping, blades weaving a continuous and deadly pattern in the air around him. He was not afraid of close combat and, much to the discomfort of Drust, continued to drive into his defences, hacking and slashing with rapid and flurrying motion, each strike strong and final, each one expecting to bring the end.

Ren did not taunt. He did not tease. He did not circle and pant for breath. If he looked for openings it was in the second gaps between punishing sweeps and jabs, each one ripping holes for the other to exploit. It would have been dangerous, had Drust a chance to get a swipe in edgewise. But he was stumbling back, trying to regain and find his own footing, staving off the vicious and determined onslaught.

Drust was backed into the edge of the arena when he finally managed to knock Ren off his feet. He blocked one blade with his shield, caught the other with his own sword and lashed out, kicking Ren hard in the stomach and sending him tumbling through the sand several feet away.

His insides churned at the blow, the wound on his throat cracking open and seeping down his front, the cuts on his right hand making his blade writhe and slip in his grasp. He snarled at the pain and frustrations, gripping tighter over the rough wood, sending waves of searing agony up his arm, trembling through his pounding chest. He thrived in it, sank into the burning and allowed it to consume him.

He charged Drust, right hand blocking the sweeping sword, left arching up, slipping between his own body and Drust’s shield to catch him under the chin. The skin split against the dull wood, blood sprayed across Ren’s face and splattered against Drust’s chest. His head whipped back, body following quickly behind. Ren followed him, landing with a knee on his chest and one foot on the forearm of his sword hand. His own blade was pressed to Drust’s throat, hard, hand shaking from pain and the thrumming, buzzing desire to kill, slaughter, end, rip, tear, slash- _kill_.

Drust gasped for air, shaking the shield from his arm and holding two fingers in the air. Ren scowled at them, sneering his disbelief, surrender? Submission? Defeat? To die would be a greater honor than admittance of defeat. A calloused hand on his shoulder jerked him back, he jumped free, swords slashing at the new attacker.

Doctore grabbed the wooden blade and ripped it easily free, blood pouring from Ren's hand to the ground. Pain lanced across his eyes, rocketing from his temple as he went blind, dropping to a knee in the sand. “You will accept every submission.” He heard the sword land in the sand before him, felt the rush of disturbed dirt skitter across the bared skin of his thighs. Eventually the white cleared and his vision returned, though now he could feel blood oozing from a blistering wound on his temple.

Ren snatched up his blade and rose to his feet, ready to fight, fingers twitching around the hilts of his blades, already stalking towards the Doctore. A pair of the other gladiators grabbed him, several more joining in to help subdue him, dragging him back to his knees in the sand and holding him. He raged against the confinement, wriggling to get free, breaking a hold just for someone else to step in and capture him again. When finally Doctore turned to look at him again, Ren had stilled, breath coming in ragged, serrated pants, chest heaving with the effort and arms quivering from exertion.

“Bring him to the Medicus.” He dismissed and immediately all the hands were gone. Ren stood slowly, eyes trained on the Doctore, who lifted a brow, “Go to the Medicus.” His words were low, trembling with unspoken threats. Ren had not the heart left to fight and so tossed his swords into the sand and stormed off in the direction indicated.

He had won but it had not felt like a victory. He had bested his first opponent but the sickening churn of his gut told him he had lost. He let loose an angry cry and swiped a pot from a pedestal, other fist slamming against the wall behind where it once stood. He remained for some time, body shaking, mind rearing to regain control of his muscles. When he finally drew away a small circle of slaves had gathered to watch. They scattered quickly when he breezed past, scurrying to clean up the mess he’d created.

Triumph was hollow. But failure was death. And so he would win. He would taste the sullen ashes of victory, he would play the Roman’s game. But he would live. He would deny them that one satisfaction, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad you made it this far- please let me know what you thought or any ideas you have for future chapters/things you might like to see.
> 
> I need all the good and bad feedback I can get to make this the best fic possible. Thank you all so much for reading and I hope to see you back here next time! (Though I might be doing some serious edits on this chapter before I move on to the next, we'll see how it reads in the morning. I'm just an impatient little fuckfuck and want to get this out now.)
> 
> Also- I could probably use a beta for this. As fun as it is to bug people with their own stories to write. I'd really appreciate any help any of you could offer. So if you're interested in some Betaing please contact me on my Tumblr- [carefulmimicry](http://carefulmimicry.tumblr.com/). I know it says it's all FenHawke... and it mostly is... but it's FenHawke and THIS now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kylo earns a position at the memorial games in the Colosseum, as well as a very special audience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****A friend brought up a great point about the ending interaction between Ren and Hux so I have edited it to make it appropriate and better characterization for both of them.****

His skin was itching, too tight for his body, squeezing in on his muscle and bone. Sanguine flakes cracked and floated to the ground in an eerie shower of gore and death. A fresh coat trickled down his chest, drying quickly in the dry, summer's heat. He could no longer tell which blood was his own, and what belonged to his opponents. He knew he had a gash in his side, he had driven his fist into it half way through his last fight, digging for a final reserve of adrenaline, the last dregs of energy he could summon to win- to not die.

His head was pounding, arms beginning to shake, as the epinephrine drained from his blood. His rage was a dying beast within him, moaning in frustration through it's final moments, driving his body to sloppy, careless flurries. His lungs sagged in his chest, heart aching with the staggering weight of quickening to pace once more. His legs were shaking, his arms drooping weights by his sides, swords clumsy and indelicate in his desperate grasp. Twelve opponents. He had faced and bested twelve opponents in the last hour and there was yet one more. Young, sandy haired and bright eyed. He was a new gladiator, virgin smooth skin the only brand he need bear. He was smirking like he'd already won, circling as a vulture around it's prey.

The boy flicked his sword out teasingly, nipping at the edge of Ren's ear, rending the cartilage and snickering contempt at the fresh trail of blood that quickly pooled in his ear. The savage beast inside of him roared it's fury at the coying disrespect. He hadn't much left in him, but the claw raking across his ribs, the scavenging teeth sinking deep into his throat, the lanced tail slashing at his muscles, taunted him into ferocious and immediate action. The boy rounded in front again. Ren's heart picked up a tick, lungs staggering to breath, the back of his throat flooding with blood, copper scorching across his tongue in a nauseating rush.

He rolled the viscous, metallic pool through his mouth and spat, hard. The boy jerked back, globs of blood and saliva caking his eyes and smattering across his face. He whipped his head wildly, smart enough not to drop his sword and shield, but not smart enough to keep them at the ready. Victory was easy. Two bold steps and the distinct sound of metal gliding too-smoothly through skin and viscera. The boy spluttered, lungs spasming, body lurching at the slow, steady intrusion. His mouth gaped uselessly and Ren wrenched his blade up, hard and fast, slicing with a sickening squelch through stomach, liver, crunching into bone. The boy's body was seizing around his sword, motions stilted, graceless an uncontrolled. The last desperate waves of life twisting from him in painful, involuntary bouts.

Ren watched, eyes dark and transfixed. The boy's every breath misted in blood, eyes bulging, mouth swollen, neck distended. There was no beauty in death but the agony and struggle of this boy's end were mesmerizing. He observed with a subdued and gleeful intrigue, unaware of the swelling and overwhelming silence of the crowd around him. The brazen, scratching _caw_ of a crow ripped him from his transfixion. His eyes danced around the stolid gaze of the crowd, the perturbed whispers rushing from mouth to ear.

He snarled, sneering a bloody smile at their amassed ranks and drove his second blade through the boy's throat, slicing through his spine with all the force of a toying summer's breeze. He was dead in an instant, eyes rolled back, body sliding from Ren’s blades, collapsing among his brethren on the matted, blackened sand.

A single, nasally trumpet sounded his victory and, as if that was the gate to hold back the flood, the crowd erupted in praise and cheer. Ren's gaze trailed across the littering of bodies around him, eyes vacant but victorious. He dropped his blades in the sand and turned sharply on his heel, retreating to the pit from whence he'd emerged. The ceiling in the tunnel was low and, with a disgruntled snort he stooped to enter it. After several meters it opened up into a larger wooden dome, tucked neatly against the exterior wall of the arena. Ren approached a large barrel, rippling with cold water, splashing himself with just enough to uncover his wounds and relieve the cracking itch that was driving him to madness. When he is finished three guards approach and lead him from the arena.

He expected to be escorted to the caged-in cart that transported the surviving gladiators to their respective Ludus' as he was after every day in the arena. Instead the trio guided him to a painted carriage with open windows covered with curtains. He scowled and looked around at his Roman entourage, as if any of them would ever speak to him, nevermind explain what it is they were doing here. It only took a moment for the cloth to shift aside and the Quaestor to appear. His face was split wide with an unbecoming smugness.

"The Emperor has passed."

Ren lifted a brow, unimpressed but also confused and intrigued- though he would never allow these to show on his face, or admit their tingle in the back of his mind.

"He has been ill for some time and one of his advisers was here to survey the games, pick a few representatives from Pompeii for the gladiatorial games that were to be held in his honor after his passing."

Ren refused to show any form of anticipatory excitement that the Quaestor was clearly trying to egg from him. The Roman rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, frustrated with Ren's obvious lack of enthusiasm.

"Anyway, he saw your fight and he has selected you. We are heading to Rome in three days time to fight in a grand tournament in the Colosseum itself."

 _"We? So you will be fighting with me then? That should be amusing, indeed."_ Ren snarled, a sneer alighting his face. The Quaestor's face twisted in disgust and he waved a hand vaguely at one of the guards. The soldier threw a quick, hard elbow into Ren's gut, causing him to collapse to his knees, bile rising at the back of his throat, lungs quivering for air. He gasped and gaped for unending seconds until finally air rushed back to his body and his stomach settled once more. His face was stone, eyes launching daggers to the man in the carriage, who was near shaking with anger, "I will not take that tone from you. Train hard. We leave in three days. Remember it is you who needs to make it out of these games alive, not I."

With that the carriage was gone. The guards dragged Ren to his feet and bullied him to the penned-in wagon that he had been expecting from the start. He put up token resistance as the guards tried to manhandle him into the cart, earning him a pommel to the head and a swift foot in the back. He flipped and snarled at them as they closed the gate and locked it. The handful of other gladiators- a mere fraction of the group they had left with- watched him with disdain, scorn or mild disinterest. He sneered at them all and took a seat at the back, shoulders hunched, arms crossed, glowering death at each person they passed.

* * *

Ren was not alone in the caged cart, nor was it the only such wagon in their small caravan. He snorted to himself, remembering Quaestor’s words. He was one of at least 15 gladiators. He was hardly anything special. Well. Not yet. He set his jaw and watched the thin forest rock by around them. Thoughts of freedom bubbled in his mind, as they always did when chance for escape presented itself. But this forest was sparse. He would be caught or killed in a moment. He did not know these woods either nor was there anywhere to run to. He quelled the voice that begged him flee and took a long, rushing breath. He would meditate until they arrived, find the inner silence and mental serenity that would allow the will of his ancestors to enter and guide his swords to victory.

He faded in and out of sleep and meditation for the entire four day trip. His rest was dark and full of waking storms that rolled and parted with the rain around him. The time between wake and sleep was blurred and he often lost track of his own consciousness. His throat cried for water, his stomach rumbled for food. At first the needy pulls of his baser, human desires ripped his mind from it’s nirvana but he managed to push through. He shifted the pained calls of his physical form to the back of his mind, allowing his thoughts to scatter and clear once more.

Occasionally the mocking jeers of the men around him drifted through his mind. They called him easy prey, they stole his rations, emptied his waterskin. They boasted of how weak he would be, how he was preparing now for his quick defeat. Ren did not respond. He allowed their words to flow through him, to sink into muscle and sinew, to nourish him in a way food could not.

The caravan creaked to a swaying stop outside the Colosseum just before dawn. Ren felt the shift instantly, his muscles stiff and still instead of rolling in an easy wave with the rocking of the cart below him. He pulled himself from his meditation and glanced around. There were dozens of carts carrying more than a hundred gladiators. He would not have to defeat them all, he knew, but the sight was daunting none-the-less. He did not permit his stirring apprehension to show in his expression, unwilling to concede any weakness to these slaves.

The gate banged open and guards were shouting in Latin for them to move and form orderly lines. Those who lingered were beaten and pushed onwards. Those who stumbled were kicked and shoved back to their feet. Ren tipped his chin, meeting each soldier’s gaze, he lengthened his strides so that they would appear unhurried. He lashed out at any guard who dared to stand within striking distance and by the time he reached the tunnel down to the gladiator chambers his arms and back were smeared with growing purple and red. A stubborn satisfaction roiled through him as he descended into the torch-lit darkness.

There were at least a dozen bathing rooms beneath the arena. Ren and the others he arrived with were herded into one and instructed to begin bathing, that there would be no assistance until after they were proven victors. His face contorted at the thought of being bathed like some broken invalid or perfumed ass. Some of the others grumbled and Ren noted them- they would be the weak ones, the cocky and confident, the ones he would defeat with ease.

The shame of being naked and surrounded by others had long since been driven from all of their minds. Most talked and jested with each other, or else boasted and strutted about like damned Peacocks. Ren cleaned himself of the dust and grime of the road, with purposeful efficiency. With haphazard care he combed his hair back with his fingers and tied a black leather thong around the messy bun.

They were jostled from the bathing room, around a circular hallway, and into a large, low ceilinged room. Their armor was stuffed into sacks, piled at the center of the room. A few gladiators at a time stepped up to identify their equipment and lug the appropriate bags with them to the back. Ren slouched at the end of the line, let the rest of them do the work of searching. By the time he stepped up there were three bags left. He snagged his own and retreated to a corner to get dressed.

He hadn’t enjoyed the help the servant girls at the Ludus provided with his dressing. But now, trying to fasten the dozen or so buckles that held the black, wool padding from ankle to thigh, he understood the convenience of it. He struggled through putting on the rest of his armor with a stubborn defiance, snarling as one of the other gladiators offered a hand. Ren wasn’t here to make friends, or find false and temporary companionship.

The sounds of the growing audience rolled in a thunder of footsteps and boisterous laughter from the stadium above. Ren slouched in the hall, arms crossed over his chest and lips set in a thin, indignant line. The hundred or so other gladiators milled in a swarming mass around him, awaiting the sounding of trumpets and the shouts of the guards that would summon them to the arena. A loud cheer rang out at a muffled announcement, dust rained down from the ceiling as thousands of feet stomped and jumped, shaking the stands.

The horns sounded and the red-caped guards around them barked orders and shoved them into some semblance of a line. They streamed out into the already blistering, morning sun. Ren twitched a tight wince at the scorching sand beneath his bare feet. The procession stopped, the combatants now in four, roughly equal lines. The master of ceremonies, some pompous and large man, waved his arms towards the gladiators, turning to bow to a shaded box which held only a small group of equally pretentious men and women.

“Emperor, dignitaries-” He stood from his deep bow and spun to address the rest of the crowd, “GOOD MEN AND WOMEN OF THE GREAT EMPIRE OF ROME!” Screams and cheers erupted from the audience and the man allowed it to die down before he continued, “I present to you-” He threw a hand in the direction of the assembled gladiators, “YOUR WARRIORS!” Another rousing cheer, which brought a derisive sneer to Ren’s face.

“GLADIATORS! You are here to honor the passing of our great-” His voice broke and he choked a little on the next words, bringing a hushing coo from the audience, “Augustus Hux. BUT WE WILL HONOR HIS NAME HERE! WITH COMBAT-” Cheers, “AND NOBLE SACRIFICE!” Louder cheers. The man with painted face raised a hand for silence, “We are also here to celebrate the ascension of our new Emperor to his father’s powerful throne- RUFUS HUX!” A red-headed man who bore the gold insignia of Rome on a red leather thong, ‘round his neck, stood and waved almost begrudgingly to the gathered audience. Was the cheer quieter now? Less enthused? Ren chortled with laughter and didn’t bother to hide his condescension.

“Gladiators! Bend the knee for your Emperor. Your sacrifice will be honored in the beyond by the grace of our great leader!”

The assembly around him dropped, and Ren carefully lowered himself with them, eyes seeking out the fire-haired man and meeting his gaze. He would kneel but he refused to submit. The man’s face tightened, and his eyes narrowed. Something, some subtle and yet unreadable expression flashed across his face and he waved a hand, prompting one of the guards to jerk the butt of their spear into his gut. Ren caved over, coughing, choking for air but still smug and satisfied at his own defiance.

The trumpets sounded the retreat and Ren was pulled up by his bicep and shoved in the direction the rest of the gladiators were moving. Ren stumbled and smirked as he looked back at the Emperor giving a lewd wink. The man snarled and sat back in his seat, body tight and stiff. A guard knocked Ren in the back, hard enough that he tripped to his knees, showering sand around him. He shook off the hand that made to wrench him from the ground once more and stood himself, striding triumphantly after the procession of fighters.

* * *

The morning crawled by in a monotony of animal roars and dying squeals. Early afternoon was filled with the jeering taunts of a crowd condemning the criminals presented before the Emperor for their crimes. When finally mid-afternoon rolled around the gladiator games began. It started slow and simple. Sword and shield versus net, spears versus clubs. When at last his name was called for the next tournament, Ren was almost glad to lift his swords and follow the entourage of armored soldiers out into the blazing sand of the stadium.

His opponent lashed his chain against the sand, rising a plume of dust. Ren sneered and spun his swords in his hands, leaving them gripped tightly by his sides. The master of ceremonies turned and bowed deeply to the new Emperor, “For your enjoyment, and the honor of your father-” Ren raised a brow at the man up in the pulpit, who was slumped in his chair, temple braced against a closed fist, utterly unamused.

“- I present to you, a Visagoth warrior, a fearsome beast from east of the Rhine- Ren!” He stepped forward, smug arrogance in his gaze as he offered a mocking bow, eyes once again locking unflinchingly. The Emperor started, sitting up just slightly straighter, face twisting into disgust before he rolled his eyes and looked away, waving his hand in dismissal.

The master of ceremonies hurried on, scowling at Ren, who stepped back into place, “And opposing him is the savage, vicious Samation fighter, unyielding in his power, unparalleled in his victories- Marticules!” The other combatant stepped up, lashing his chain over his head before slapping it the ground, bowing deeply. The Emperor waved him off quickly and the large announcer floundered, forcing a smile to his face as he addressed the crowd once more.

“Ladies, gentlemen- YOUR WARRIORS!” They screamed and chanted, all watching the Emperor with anticipation. The Emperor rose lazily and raised a hand, causing silence to fall around the Colosseum.

“Begin!” He shouted it, but his voice felt small and was swallowed up easily by the excitement of the audience.

The chain lashed at Ren before he could react, catching him sharply across the face, splitting his lip and tearing a gash along his cheek. Ren set his jaw and drew his tongue through the pooling blood on his lip, smiling cruelly. The spiked chain whipped around to lash at him once more. He managed to throw an arm up in time to catch the wrath of the attack. The sharp links coiled quickly around his arm, pulling it tight against his throat and looped around that as well. Blood drooled down his neck and bicep and the spikes dug deep as his opponent pulled the chain taut, attempting to choke him.

Ren snarled, air wheezing desperately into his lungs with each struggling breath. His right arm was useless, trapped over his head and against his neck. His body rocked against the tight pull of the chain, fighting the pressure to step forward. He writhed and struggled, head growing light, visions of clawing across a tiled floor flashing in his mind. He could feel the hot slick of blood down his body, tickling and scratching at his chest and side. The gathered masses swelled with chanting cheers for his opponent. Ren used the last of his trickling air to roar and charge forward, spurred by their jeering cries.

The gladiator clearly wasn’t expecting it and couldn’t flick his chain free before Ren sank the blade in his free hand into his chest. The man spluttered, gurgled and Ren pulled the sword free and flicked it to splatter the blood from it. He ducked free of the chain and took a few, staggered steps back, rubbing absently at the wounds across his neck, smearing the blood in a bright, tacky brand.

He raised a brow and cast his gaze up to the Emperor, whose hands were gripped tightly against the arms of his chair, posture tall and stiff, a strange… something in his expression. Ren sneered and crossed an arm over his chest, bowing low, maintaining eye contact. A guard checked his spear across Ren’s back to get him to move, grumbling something in Latin that Ren couldn’t quite make out.

“ROMANS, I PRESENT YOUR VICTOR- REN!” The people belted and chanted as the guard raised Ren’s hand in the air. He jerked his wrist free and strode towards the exit, swords dropped haphazardly and forgotten in the sand. He spared one last glance to the Emperor before he ducked into the tunnel that would take him to the quickly emptying holding room beneath the stadium.

* * *

“Ren!” One of the Roman soldiers belted into the room, gaze scanning the thinned crowd. Ren did not move, did not look, did not flinch. He had finished his fight and whatever the guard wanted was of no concern to him. The gladiator beside him elbowed him and bodily forced him from his seat on the bench. He glared at the man but stood and strode boldly up to the soldier. They walked down a series of cobwebbed hallways that wove endlessly beneath the Colosseum.

Finally he was jostled into a small room and the wooden door snapped shut behind him. Ren pursed his lips and turned to look at the other figure in the room with him. _“What do you want?”_

The man turned, dramatically enough that Ren snorted a laugh and couldn't help but roll his eyes. “You will speak Latin in my presence, savage.”

Ren paused, sifting through his options before finally spitting out a sharp, “What do you want.” A question that, coming from his lips, sounded more like a demand.

The Emperor huffed, clearly flustered by his lack of respect, “You will speak to me as an Emperor!”

Ren’s eyes narrowed, watching him, "What can I do for you, highness." His tone was lilting and almost condescending. If The emperor noticed it he didn't react  

"You will attend the celebration tonight for the passing of Emperor Augustus Hux." He stood up straighter when saying the name, chin tipped.

Ren set his lips and longed to spit, to lash out, but felt the heavy presence of the guard behind the door. "As you wish, Emperor."

The Emperor could hear the blase disconcern behind Ren's words and frowned, "Yes. It is. You will perform an exhibition fight with Auricles, the pride of Rome."

"As you wish."

The Emperor's frown turned to a cold glare, "This is a great honor, slave."

Ren had to bite his tongue to stop his indignant retort that he was no slave. Fury welled within his chest and he stiffened, face hardening. "I'm sure many would grovel and beg for such a chance." He ground out between clenched teeth.

The Emperor smirked, "Yes. They would. And you would do well to be so grateful."

Ren met his gaze with a subdued fury in his eyes, setting his jaw and forcing out an even, "Yes, Feuerklein." Ren smirked at the slight, Hux's face tightening, though unwilling to ask for clarification. Instead he let out a terse breath, words cold and dangerous.

"You impressed me out there. Such inclinations are fickle and will not last long if you do not nurture it." He swept past Ren, eyes meeting his as he did so, and some how it felt like he was looking down at him, despite being a head shorter. "You will show respect and kneel as I leave."

Ren's face was death as he slowly, achingly slowly, lowered to one knee, eyes alight with mocking derision at the Emperor's forced facade of power. He had to begrudgingly admit that, despite his own defiance, there was a very real respect and fear of the Emperor among the people of Rome. And, as much as he might want to deny it, Ren did feel a hesitant respect himself to the man's easy knowing and assured stature.

The Emperor strode past, robes sweeping across Ren's face as he exited the room. Ren stood and stalked after the guard, throwing off the guiding hand and growling when the man tried to reprimand him. The crowd of remaining gladiators all cast their gazes aside quickly when he entered, face fierce and body tensed for a fight.

He had agreed to fight. He had not agreed to be the puppet of Rome or its Emperor. He would find a way to take the control back, to gain power over the tiny, fire-haired man, over their great Emperor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing fiction as a poet: There's a verb version of this word... What's the word for that... nope... nope... nope... Well that one sounds best *add to dictionary*
> 
> Also I'm still in search of a beta, we can all admit I need one, so please let me know if you're interested.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and your amazing comments. I hope each chapter is better than the last.


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